


Professionalism

by ashford2ashford



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, Needles, Second Person Perspective, well...one needle in one sentence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashford2ashford/pseuds/ashford2ashford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know the warning signs when you see them, but still you’re ignoring them.</p><p>The target’s name is fresh in your mind. Photographs of him have been committed to memory so you are more than positive that, when the time does come, you have the right man. The destruction and chaos left in his wake is more notorious than your reputation as the best Spy money can buy and that, strangely, irks you somewhat. Of course, you’re a professional (you tell yourself), you could not possibly allow yourself to fall prey to jealousy. That would tarnish any semblance of professionalism left inside you if you did.</p><p>The thing is: you are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Professionalism

You know the warning signs when you see them, but still you’re ignoring them.

Perhaps an entire resume that reads “murderer never found” and “suspect still at large” has made you overconfident and cocky? Perhaps you are purposely ignoring every urge to back down because the punishment for failure is far worse than the punishment for getting caught (you know that certainly isn’t true)? Either way, you are truly going ahead with this act of madness and there is nothing that anyone can do to stop you in this moment.

The target’s name is fresh in your mind. Photographs of him have been committed to memory so you are more than positive that, when the time does come, you have the right man. The destruction and chaos left in his wake is more notorious than your reputation as the best Spy money can buy and that, strangely, irks you somewhat. Of course, you’re a professional (you tell yourself), you could not possibly allow yourself to fall prey to jealousy. That would tarnish any semblance of professionalism left inside you if you did.

The thing is: you are.

You are so jealous of this man, this Medic, who has obtained infamy through purely scientific means - whereas you have had to scrape and fight and murder and cheat and steal and lie and – that it practically eats you up from the inside out. Blood runs hotter than lava through your veins. A bead of sweat hangs precariously on the end of your nose. Those three-piece suits that you pride yourself on looking so impressive in now feel tighter than a hangman’s noose around your neck. 

When did the hallway that you have walked a million times before, so many so that you could walk it blindfolded, become so small?

Anxiety would always be your undoing. You panic when you feel emotion because you know that feelings are entirely unprofessional (you’re imagining the word ‘professional’ a lot lately. Are you trying to convince yourself or us?), and as a result you feel angry with yourself for even allowing this air of perfection to waver even slightly, which only spirals into more emotion and – oh.

The Medic has stopped right outside of his laboratory.

Naturally, you were so caught up with obsessing over yourself and your own problems that you didn’t notice; thankfully you have enough natural instinct left within your body to act instantaneously to any change in your surroundings. Cold metal walls against your back are more than effective methods at suddenly snapping you out of that internal struggle, and you quickly try to rein in your frantic breathing. The heartbeat pounding within the blood in your ears slows a fraction. Back in control for now. 

When you dare take a glance, the target has already gone inside, the door open and the sound of boots heavy upon the tiled floor. Although the man prides himself on dressing in heavy duty military grade footwear, you doubt that, aside from this particular war, the man has never seen combat before. Then you remember that you have every last detail on his file stored inside the various pages of your mental notebook and you curse yourself for even allowing such an inane side-thought to grace your internal clockwork. 

The target is getting away. 

Think clearly.

You need to move quickly. 

Such imperatives are needed to ensure that your body springs into action. You are so sure that the gut instinct telling you to run the other way, before something terrible happens because - you’ve seen his file and oh god what he did to those Scouts was sadistic and then there were the Spies that he caught before and you’re next you’re next you’re next – you know what he is capable of, is not entirely wrong. 

You have to lie to yourself to make sure you complete the mission.

Is there anyone you have not lied to?

From the moment you opened your lips to say: “I work for Redmond Mann” you were lying. “I have worked for that company for ten years” was another one, but a slightly more irrelevant one. “My favourite colour is blue” was the most unnecessary one you told, but then again you’ve become somewhat of a compulsive liar given your job description.  
However, that is another internal side-track to your otherwise extremely important mission, and you are falling behind. The sound of the target’s footfalls is all but gone now. Probably into some deeper and darker part of his workspace. You’re alone in the hallway and alone in the opening of the doorway that leads down yet another hallway into the Medic’s laboratory. Alone and most definitely distracted. No clear thinking at all from what you can see. 

In the past, you once refused a mission because the risks outweighed the benefits, and nothing really came of it. Your client was disappointed, yes, in the same way that a father would be disappointed in a child he caught cheating on a test that one time (Spies often start young), but there was no underlying horrific punishment following that exchange. He merely bid you adieu and then hired you an additional seventeen times afterwards; all missions successful and all money paid. 

Why would mission eighteen be any different?

You know you have an entire fountain of knowledge and intelligence regarding this target already. Grey Mann just wants these samples from the RED Medic’s lab because they would be beneficial to the company and the future of robotics everywhere. He is not even in a particular rush for them. 

“In your own time.” He told you, “You’re invaluable to me. Not many Spies of your calibre would go against Helen and her mercenaries, let alone Blutarch and Redmond themselves. If the mission looks like it will be compromised, then wait. Bide your time. Do not rush in blindly through some sense of loyalty.”

Yes. He did say that.

There is music coming from down the gaping maw of the hallway in front of you, some form of orchestral piece, and the RED Medic is nowhere in sight. You could just slip away right now and return when he goes to the rec room or to dinner…which would mean admitting that this man has you scared. That a fifty-something, age-old, tired Medic who conducts horrific experiments on anyone he can get his hands on, has you trembling in the hallway leading into his territory like a child. 

Admit that and leave now.

Walk away.

Turn around and - you don’t.

Of course you don’t.

You’re not leaving this opportunity to show that you can steal these samples from right under his beak-like nose behind you. Fear is choked down and just enough courage is returned to you so that your long (trembling) bandy legs can start the dangerous walk to the open jaws of the lab. Breathe in and out. You’ve done this before.

Don’t panic.

…

You’re still panicking.

Then again, how could you not? You’re going against everything that the sane part of your brain registers on a frantic level. All for the sake of the taste of glory? When did you become so proud and pitiful? 

Corners seem to invite endless darkness to enter them now. Every hallway seems to be at least twenty feet longer than you remember them being. That music seems so out of place in this den of insanity. Calm and peaceful violins accompanied by the gentle lull of a harp and the wonderful range of tones that the piano has to offer. 

It actually helps somewhat.

It reminds you that this man that you are hunting is merely that: a man. He can bleed and he can cry (you’ve never seen him cry, but you imagine that he has done so at least once in his life before his heart turned completely to stone) and he can most certainly be killed. The Medic has fancies and hobbies and a taste in music and is so terribly human that you nearly break poise and giggle at the very idea that you were once so terrified of him; you manage to catch yourself at the last minute.

That wonderful orchestral piece is the perfect accompaniment to the twisted dance that you are performing currently. Very uplifting. You suppose you should commend him on his fine music tastes when you go back to your usual routine of pretending to be his comrade, but that would require you catching him at a time when he is listening to it again – just to make the story that little bit more convincing – and you know that you have better things to be doing than pursuing casual conversation in the most round-about way.  
Strange when you think about it.

Tomorrow will be just another day. You will ‘awaken’ and you will smile as you normally do each day. No doubt the Engineer will have cooked up the most marvellous feast for you to partake in. Gossip will spread around the table as is routine and then suddenly the RED Medic will appear with a face like thunder and you will ask –oh so sweetly – what is wrong with him. You probably won’t get an answer, but it will be satisfying to just sit there and simply know why he is enraged. Then you will prepare your equipment for the day’s battle and…

Satisfied thoughts fall like shattered glass in an instant.

Yes, Monsieur, that is a needle in your neck.

See, there’s a reason that you didn’t hear the RED Medic sneak up on you from his hiding place in the deepest and darkest corners of a blackened hallway. Every last ounce of strength is draining from your body – very quick acting drugs – and your thoughts are – need to run and tell Grey Mann that the RED Medic is – becoming scattered. 

It is strange how you panic now. Terror floods through every last inch of your body. Naturally, you can still hear the soft lilting tones of classical music; the same classical music that prevented you from hearing anything from behind you or around you. 

It seems almost fitting that it was the accompaniment to your untimely demise. 

When the Medic steps into view around you, you are already collapsed on the floor, bones unable to support the dead weight of an unresponsive bag of nerves and muscle and organs (is that how the Medic sees people?). Now that you have no choice but to listen, you can hear him chuckle, a low and very pleased sounding purr. One heavy military boot steps on your hand, but you cannot feel it, and you are certain that you would scream if you could - given any other circumstance - as he grinds the heel into bone.

That thick German accent, that people say makes him terrifying, laments on your overall failure and mocks your inability to recognise a distraction when you hear one. It points out your imperfections and tells you in detail where exactly you went wrong. You admit to fear threatening to tear apart your chest as he muses that he has some use for you. Not the subject he had in mind, but still something he can work with.

You don’t have time to fall prey to indescribable terror at his words.

Darkness is here too quickly.

**Author's Note:**

> This may be continued as another story later on, but the things that will happen to this RED Spy - GREY Spy perhaps? - are extremely unpleasant.
> 
> Still, I hope you enjoy me getting back into writing after so many years.


End file.
